The Young and The Restless
by d r a m a t i s . e c h o
Summary: AU: "I am leaving you with the best possible guardian I can provide. I want you to be challenged, protected, and successful... and this man will ensure that. There is no one I trust more with your life." Sherlock/Younger!John
1. Who is Sherlock Holmes?

**Disclaimer:** I do not own 'Sherlock BBC' ... just the general plot. I will probably quote a few things from actual episodes along the way, but they will be italicized.

**Pairings**: Sherlock/Younger!John

**Note:** I really love this show, and push it on people whenever I can. Go watch. I love their dynamic, and felt like writing a multi-fic about them.

**Note II:** This is an AU, where John is around 17, and Sherlock is 27ish. For some reason I want to play around with an age difference. Both will continue to age, since I want to get John to 19 and Sherlock to 29. Don't like? Don't read.

**Inspired Song:** I Can't Make You Love Me - Bon Iver

* * *

><p>"Aim... fire."<p>

Shots.

"Aim... fire."

Shots.

The mournful sound of gunfire seemed to echo through the cemetery as the dearly departed was gently lowered into the ground. And it was there, that John Watson stood. Seventeen years old, and now head of his family. What family was left, that is. Really it was just him and his sister, Harriet, who was currently in rehab for her alcohol addiction. She was almost ten years older than him, and certainly no role-model for her younger brother to follow. And as dramatic as it might seem, Harry was a flight risk; thus, her absence at her own father's funeral. Granted the two hadn't gotten along for a while, ever since Gerald Watson admitted his darling, _difficult _'little girl' to her second rehabilitation clinic.

"_So what's he going to happen to John now?"_

"_I don't know. The poor boy's all alone. Dr. Watson had been taking care of him alone for the past few years since his mother's passing."_

"_It's just awful."_

"_I can't imagine loosing both parents... all with a sister in rehab. No relatives close? What's he going to do?"_

"_Can't imagine. How did he pay for the funeral?"_

John winced and attempted to ignore their gossiping as his father's casket finally hit it's new resting place; six feet underground. He still had to take care of the billing. Given that his father had done some duty in Afghanistan as an army doctor, before returning to take a few years at Scotland Yard under his belt – John knew he would get a lump pension. With the money both his mother and father left him, he would undoubtedly be able to still attend university.

Of course young John was having a hard time seeing the _point_.

He had been close with his father. He looked up to him a great deal, and was proud of everything he had accomplished in his life. Gerald proved to be a rock, even in the toughest of times. Steady. Calm. The passing of his wife, and John's mother – Lillian – had been tough on them both. But Gerald had pulled them both through it. He'd always encouraged John to do his best, and it was no surprise that the young man wanted to be _just_ like his old man. He was on his way, too... or HAD been. He was studying to become a doctor, and had already started looking at medical school. Gerald had been grooming and teaching John the tricks of his trade from a young age. The teen already had a knack for medical care, and it showed.

Unfortunately it seemed that confidence had taken a slight step backward. When Gerald had dropped from a sudden heart-attack, John had done his best to try and resuscitate him while the ambulance was on it's way. But upon arrival, the paramedics informed him there was nothing to be done. The heart-attack had done it's damage, and Dr. Gerald Watson's life had come to an unexpected close.

The overcast, grey London skies only seemed to darken with each passing minute while the funeral guests departed the drab scene.

John didn't move. It was hard to.

He was a mature kid for seventeen... but he was painfully aware that he couldn't live on his own. London was too expensive, and no matter how much money he attained from his father's will – it wouldn't be enough to sustain him through university and into a career.

"John?"

The familiar voice of Gregory Lestrade pulled the youth out of his melancholy thoughts. "Alright?" The teen greeted quietly, forcing a small smile.

"Everyone's clearin' out now." The detective cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Not that I'm trying to _rush_ you. We can stay a bit longer, if you'd like." He offered. "But eventually... we need to head back to the yard. Your father left a special will back there under your name with instructions in case he was to... uh... pass away unexpectedly."

John turned his blue eyes back toward the pristine headstone. Swallowing a small lump in his throat, the boy steeled himself and nodded. "Right then." He turned, and followed the detective away from the grave site.

As they slipped into the car, John released a slow breath he didn't know he'd been holding in. Lestrade started up the car, letting it warm for a bit, before he began to pull out of the cemetery.

"Look, um... I know you might not want to talk about it now, but," The older man began. "Did you want me to look into finding you someone to speak with? A therapist, or something?"

John scoffed, staring out the window, "Do I look _that_ lost?" His tone was a bit harsher than he intended. Then again, he HAD just buried his father.

"I didn't mean it like that." Lestrade backtracked gently. "But this is gonna be a big change, y'know? All the lads want to make sure you're alright. We owe your dad a lot. It might not be a bad idea to have someone to talk to on a regular basis... talk about everything that happens to you?"

The teen stared at nothing in particular, before giving a short reply.

"Nothing happens to me."

* * *

><p>"Ah! You must be John Watson."<p>

John took the hand that was offered to him and shook it. "John, this is Jim Morgan... he's one of the lawyers from the firm who was retained by your father." Lestrade introduced.

"Sorry to hear about your loss." Jim sighed. "He was a good man; you look just like him." The lawyer grinned innocently; his dark eyes somewhat lingering over John a little longer than expected. But when John frowned at the extended eye-contact, Jim looked away. "I've got special instructions here to hand this paperwork over to you – in the event of your father's passing." He explained, seeming to go back to business.

He gave John a standard manila envelope. The teen stared at it for a few moments, before hesitantly lifting his eyes to Lestrade. "Go on then. It's not gonna open itself." He muttered with an encouraging smile. Frankly, they were all a little curious to see what Gerald might have left his son; something that he didn't trust to leave with the rest of his instructions.

John carefully ripped open the top with a nearby letter opener, before he pulled out a single sheet of white paper. Frowning, John turned it over; he had kind of expected it to be a few pages; a booklet, even. Not **one** page.

"What's it say, then?" Sgt. Donovan asked curiously. She was currently leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, but eyes alight with interest. Her somewhat lax body language was perhaps an attempt to ease the formality in the room; an attempt that John was grateful for as he started to read...

_John,_

_I'm sorry. _

_I love you._

_It was difficult to decide how to begin this letter... but I have the feeling you're only partially convinced of the first, and devotedly reminding yourself of the second. The worst has unfortunately happened, and you are no doubt enduring the aftermath. _

_If you've received this letter, I am gone – and you are not yet old enough to care for yourself. So I am leaving you with the best possible guardian I can provide. I want you to be challenged, protected, and successful in life..._

_And this man will ensure that. I guarantee it. There is no one I trust more with your life. Watch, listen, and learn. _

_With my love,_

_Gerald H. Watson_

Frowning, John looked back into the envelope, wondering if he'd missed something. There, near the bottom, was a card. At first glance, it appeared to be a business card... but when John pulled it out, he saw it simply bore a name, and address.

"...Who is Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

><p>"This is such a mistake." Sally sighed from the backseat of the police cab.<p>

Lestrade shot her another glare in the rear-view mirror, "That's enough." He said firmly; there was still a hint of weariness to his tone that alluded to the long day endured by all three of them.

"Y-You keep saying that," John muttered anxiously, "What? What's wrong with the guy?"

Sally scoffed, "Oh nothing. Just your average freak of nature."

"He's not a freak." Lestrade interrupted, "Sherlock is just... particular. Precise." He trailed off as he drove.

"_Peculiar_." Sally added with a small smirk.

Lestrade glanced at her once more in warning, before looking back to John in the passenger seat. "You're dad was a smart guy. If he's naming Sherlock as your guardian, there's a reason for it." He clarified. Pausing, Lestrade couldn't help but shake his head a bit. "Still. Gotta admit, it is a bit odd. It's not like your father was short of friends. Any one of us would've taken you in..."

"He was the only one who would actually _talk_ to the freak." Sally spoke up again. "Or rather, could stand 'im for more than two minutes."

John fell silent. He didn't remember his father ever mentioning a 'Sherlock Holmes' to him, but apparently they were friends? It seemed quite the feat, judging by the disdain laced in Sally's voice – and the apprehension in Lestrade's. His fascination was growing more and more as they drove. After all, what kind of man preceeded his reputation in such a mixed way?

"Here we are, then." The detective grunted, stopping the car and undoing his seat-belt. "221b Baker Street. Your new home."

Swallowing the small pit of anxiety down a little further, John nodded, and obediently followed the two into the central London townhouse. He didn't have many things with him; a duffelbag on his shoulder, while Lestrade toted a suitcase behind him and Sally followed with a box. The party of three trudged up the narrow stairwell up two flights, before reaching the next floor.

"Ah. Well." Lestrade awkwardly cleared his throat. "I'm sure he'll... erm... tidy up once you're settled." He deduced, looking around at the chaotic mess that WAS Sherlock's flat.

John didn't think he'd ever seen such clutter. Furrowing his brow, he tilted his head, "Is _that_ the _kitchen_?" The teen gaped in disbelief at the similarly-cluttered kitchen table, complete with multiple test tubes and obscure (even some decaying) objects.

"Right, I think Mrs. Hudson said your bedroom is upstairs." Lestrade continued, pointedly ignoring John's bewilderment. "Sally, why don't you take John up. I'll call Sherlock and see whereabouts he is."

She gestured affectionately with a slight tilt of her head for John to follow. The boy obeyed without question – despite his growing curiosity and confusion toward the main space. How could someone actually LIVE here? It seemed like such a busy spot; _a habitat, not a home_.

Lestrade waited until the two were out of sight before pulling out his cellphone and quickly shooting Sherlock an impatient text.

_Where the bloody hell are you? I told you we were coming at 7. - L_

He huffed a quick breath, and was about to put the cell back in his pocket, when it informed him he had a new message.

_Behind you. SH_

Lestrade turned, and even with a warning – jumped slightly when he saw Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, standing _right_ behind him in the doorway with a cocky smirk.

"That's not funny, y'know." The Detective groaned, slipping his cell back into his coat.

Sherlock quirked a brow and slowly waltzed into his flat, removing his black leather gloves as he did so, "Oh, I don't know. Somehow I still find it amusing. Especially since you seem_ genuinely_ startled at my presence – even after being given a heads-up."

His long, dark grey coat flared slightly as he turned in the middle of the room, "Where is he?"

"Upstairs, putting his things in the bedroom with Sally." He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock's eyes closed lazily, and re-opened; his own Sherlockian version of an eye-roll. "Perfect. She'll have him calling me 'freak' in record time." Shrugging off his coat, the 27-year-old Consulting Detective tossed it over his favorite, ratty armchair. "So. Where's the letter?"

Lestrade stared at Sherlock blankly for a few minutes, before he reached for the inside pocket of his coat.

"How on earth did you know there'd be a letter?" He asked.

Sherlock scoffed, "A man dies and gives his only son to a colleague? Of _course_ there's a note; something intended for my eyes but not his son's."

"His name is John, and he's seventeen." The older of the two corrected. "Don't start on the bad habit of calling him _boy_, or _the son_, or _offspring_, or _'you there'_... It's **John**."

The tall, dark-haired male snatched the letter and opened it with smooth, practiced precision. "I'm aware. I've been researching."

"Researching." Lestrade repeated. "Is that where you were? I wondered... when I didn't see you at the cemetary."

Sherlock's eyes began to speed over the letter; absorbing every word and storing each detail in his mind. "I was in the back. Mostly. Left a bit early; funerals are rather anti-climactic, don't you think? After all, you wouldn't pay to see a movie you know the ending to."

It was just another typical off-handed comment for the consulting detective... but when he was on his _third _read-through of the letter, his icy grey eyes finally glanced up to look at Lestrade. He took note of his seemingly irritated silence.

"Sherlock. You listen to me." The elder began, taking a few steps to close the distance between them. "He's not a new toy, he's not an experiment... he's your _responsibility_." He reminded him in a serious tone. Sherlock stared into the man's eyes to see a firm warning, coupled with flecks of a genuine plea. Everyone had adored Gerald Watson while he'd been alive, and now, _the least likely person_ was being trusted to continue raising his son.

With that realization, something briefly flashed within Sherlock's heart...

_But he pushed it down_. "You can leave." He said, clearly unimpressed with being spoken to in such an elementary manner.

Footfalls on the creaky, aged steps alerted both men to the return of Sally Donovan and John Watson. Sally appeared first, glaring at Sherlock as she normally did – though the consulting detective was clearly disinterested as his eyes found a more interesting subject. Young John Watson, standing just behind her.

"...'ello freak." Sally greeted coolly, taking out her cellphone and texting away as she moved to stand next to Lestrade.

Sherlock took a few steps forward toward John, who was staring up at the taller male with slight apprehension, "Um, h-hello." He greeted, giving a nervous smile and nod.

"Sherlock Holmes." The dark-haired man stated, holding his hand out toward the teen.

John took it, and they shook. "John Watson."

"I'm aware." The quick answer came. Pausing, Sherlock's stormy eyes flickered to the stairwell he had just come down. "All settled in, then?" His voice was low and had a disinterested lull to it that wasn't lost on John Watson.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think Sherlock was just going through the motions. "Yeah." He answered, before shifting on his feet. "Look, there's no need to stand on ceremony, or anythin'..." John began. Looking over to Lestrade and Sally, he gave them a smile. "You can go."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly; whether it was because he was impressed or just curious, John wasn't sure. But he swore he saw Sherlock's mouth twitch up at the corner ever so slightly.

"You heard him." Sherlock purred, pushing past John. "Good day." He shouted back, without turning around as he swept himself into the kitchen and out of sight.

The three people left in the living room couldn't help but stare after him, stunned... before Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, we're off then." He announced, nudging Sally – who was all too happy to get out of the flat. As she headed down the stairs, Lestrade stopped at John. "If you need anythin' don't hesitate to let me know. Alright?" He asked. Huffing a small, worried breath, Lestrade leaned in and embraced John in a sturdy, supportive hug. The teen couldn't help but smirk, and awkwardly pat Lestrade on the back. "Take care of yourself, eh lad?"

"I'll be fine." John assured him, pulling back.

Lestrade, though still appearing unconvinced, nodded, and took off down the stairs after Sally. John waited and listened until he heard the sound of the front door closing.

Knowing the coast was clear, John groaned and flopped back into the plush (but incredibly worn) arm chair nearby.

"I daresay, I've never met someone who so resembles a lost puppy." The smooth, slightly condescending voice returned from the kitchen entrance. "Lestrade would have taken you with him, if you'd said the word. Why then did you opt for staying with someone you don't even know?" Sherlock enquired, lazily sauntering back into the room.

John looked up at him, "I don't want to be treated like I'm five, thanks." He sighed. "He's a good bloke, but I'm seventeen. I don't need to be coddled." As his blue eyes looked over Sherlock, John offered him a charming smile. "Besides, if my dad named you my guardian, he must have had a good reason. I trust him."

"Mm." Sherlock hummed, "Can I borrow your phone?" He asked.

John's face was steeped in confusion, but he nonetheless, reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. "Yeah. Here." He tossed it over to Sherlock, who caught it fluidly as he walked past. He flopped onto the couch before beginning to text rapidly on his cell phone.

Silence quickly filled the room. The only faint noise was the sound of Sherlock typing away on his keypad. John watched him curiously, even a bit expectantly. Was that it? Introductions aside, and back to usual? Not that John KNEW what Sherlock's 'usual' life consisted of.

An irritated sigh snapped John out of his thoughts, "Alright, you've got questions." Sherlock mused dully, flicking his icy-orbs up to the teen, before back to his phone.

"Yeah." John admitted in his usual, straightforward manner. "What are you doing?"

"Texting. Next?" Sherlock responded.

John wasn't exactly amused by the quick 'obvious' reply, but continued, regardless. "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, still keeping his eyes on his phone.

"Well, I'd say private detective, but..." He began, noticing how Sherlock's brow quirked at the word,

"But?" Sherlock baited.

"But the police don't normally interact, engage, or GO to private detectives. Still, everyone seems to know who you are." He muttered.

Sherlock smirked, "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What the hell does that mean?" The teen frowned.

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth — which is _always_ — they consult me." Sherlock drawled; his tone slightly arrogant.

In fact, it seemed to rub John the wrong way more than he cared to admit. What made this guy so special? Why did he move around, and act so high-and-mighty. "The police don't consult amateurs." He pointed out stubbornly.

Sherlock looked up at John from his phone and trailed his eyes over John in a calculating fashion.

"Do you really still blame yourself for the death of your father? It's incredibly foolish, and... pedestrian... you know." He noted.

John stared at him blankly for a moment. "Wha- How... how did you know what?" He asked, his voice for the first time, taking on an irritated edge. While it was no secret he had tried to save his father's life after the sudden heart-attack, he hadn't really told anyone how _responsible_ he felt. How helpless; how the memory of his failure had plagued him every day since.

"I didn't know. I _saw_." Sherlock answered a bit smugly. "Your eyes, the way you hold yourself, seems to scream guilt. The conversation as Lestrade left you — told you to take care of yourself, a bit unnecessary, considering you _just_ lost your father. Obvious. Your face is pleasant enough — you're used to hiding what's wrong under a guise of strength and politeness. The ever-dutiful son. The eyes are really the key... and despite your physical front, they portray your sadness, your loss and the anger you feel with yourself. That suggests the original circumstances of your father's heart attack were probably more _traumatic_ than you care to admit — the undercurrent of guilt, even formality, allude to the absence of a sibling, perhaps. You're shouldering this ordeal yourself."

John stared at Sherlock.

He'd never been analyzed so... quickly, or accurately, before.

"Then there's your brother." Sherlock continued seamlessly, as if the entire deduction of 'John' was childsplay. "Your phone — it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're only 17, no mother, you couldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. The boy sitting before me wouldn't treat his **one** luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already..." He smirked, indicating back of the phone, which has been engraved: _"Harry Watson — from Clara xxx"_

The young, sandy-haired male gaped, "...The engraving?"

"Harry Watson — clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, obviously — this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a teenager, who's lost both parents, and who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara — who's _Clara_? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently — this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then — six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left _him_, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But _no_, he wanted rid of it — he left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

John couldn't help but interrupt, "**How** can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?"

The consulting detective smiled, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection — tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

"_I_ was right?" John repeated. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult _amateurs_."

Silence again.

Sherlock was just waiting for the inevitable shouting match; the cursing, the swearing, the denial, all of it expected when such a blatant (and slightly tactless) personal deduction was given. At least, that was the typical reaction he got from people he deduced. He could only imagine how temperamental a 17-year-old kid would be.

"That... was incredible."

Now THAT, he hadn't been prepared for. Sherlock frowned and tilted his head.

"...you think so?" He asked, slightly suspicious.

John's eyes shifted around the flat, trying to avoid Sherlock, "Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was _quite_... extraordinary." He gushed quietly.

"That's not what people normally say." The genius admitted.

"And what do people normally say?"

"...Piss off?" Their eyes met at that point, and a small, knowing smile was shared between them.

Their very first.

Shifting a bit in his seat, Sherlock stared at his new, young charge curiously. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"Harry and me don't get on. Never have." John admitted with a weary sigh. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they're getting a divorce. And Harry... _is_ a drinker.

Sherlock looked quite pleased with himself,_ "S_pot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." He mused, tossing John's cell phone back to him. The teen caught it, and shoved it back into his pocket.

"Harry is short for Harriet." He finished, standing up.

His guardian froze, and sat upright; his body tensing. "Harry's your sister..." He muttered.

"Cup of tea?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's shock as he stood. He smiled to himself.

It felt kind of good to at least get ONE over on the brilliant detective. "_Sister_!" He heard Sherlock hiss loudly in frustration. "There's always something."

The smile didn't leave John's face while he prepared them some tea.

* * *

><p>It was close to 1am by the time John sauntered up to his room. After making he and Sherlock some tea, he had spent a few more hours just talking to his new guardian. While he hated to admit it... the man really WAS bloody brilliant. It was like he knew <em>everything<em>. For a playful challenge, John had even turned on the telly – and showed Sherlock some gaudy talk-shows, betting he couldn't deduce the results of paternity tests. To his surprise, Sherlock hadn't really seen such shows before... but took no time at all getting right into it. The night had continued with Sherlock shouting at the dysfunctional scumbags and slutty tarts on television regarding the true identity of the 'father' for each pregnant, sassy-mouthed girl, and even theories as to the location where 'copulation' could have occurred. It had amused John to no end, and he actually found himself laughing for the first time in **days** at Sherlock's enthusiasm.

When they were done, and Sherlock had turned his attention back to his phone, John had excused himself and gone upstairs. The intention was to sleep... but he found himself surprisingly alert. He tried to rationalize it; _this was a new place, new room, new guardian_.

Releasing a frustrated breath, John slid off his bed and headed back downstairs as quietly as possible. He didn't want to wake Sherlock, after all...

"I thought you went to bed." The voice initially startled John as he arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

Moving into the living room, he saw Sherlock still perched on the couch like a vulture in waiting – texting away on his phone. "Likewise." John mumbled, heading into the kitchen. "Just can't sleep. What about you?"

Sherlock didn't look up, "I _don't_ sleep. Waste of time, really." The sound of the front door opening and closing caught the detective's immediate attention, and he suddenly sprung up. John furrowed his brow, and peeked around the corner of the kitchen to see Lestrade walk in. "Where?" Sherlock asked; a sly, eager little smirk crossing his lips.

Lestrade sighed, "West end. Suicide, apparently. Bit dodgy though... wondered if you'd take a look."

"Text me the address." Sherlock muttered, shifting his eyes to the floor in thought. "I'll follow in a cab."

The older detective nodded, and disappeared back out the door, apparently unaware of John's presence in the kitchen. Stepping out a little further, the teen kept his eyes on Sherlock – who suddenly jumped to life and grabbed his long, dark coat and dark blue scarf.

"Right, I'm off." He sounded far more chipper than usual. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to get excited about a suicide. "Don't wait up; won't be back till late. Or, early." He mumbled, tearing out of the flat.

John didn't even have time to ask ONE question, let alone the seven that were rushing through his mind.

As the flat fell silent once more, the sandy-haired teen wandered back into the living room and sat down in the arm-chair he'd taken such a liking to. _'Guess I can watch a bit of telly...'_ John figured, knowing that this was probably the first, in a long list, of sleepless nights. Even though Sherlock had immediately called him on his guilt – it didn't make the passing of his father any easier. John still felt responsible. He could have sworn he'd done all the steps right; there was no real reason his father shouldn't have responded. _'Was there something else? Something I missed?'_ He thought to himself, staring at television, though not really watching it.

"Telly on. Kettle boiling." The baritone voice in the room made John jump, as he spun around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, yet again. "Still not sleepy?"

John frowned and stared curiously at the older male. "No."

"Hm. This is all very domestic of you." Sherlock smirked. "I'm sure a smart, responsible young man like you has **no** interest in unanswered questions? Violent deaths? Dangerous locations? Unexplainable circumstance and untrustworthy individuals? Indeed, why run around the streets of London at one-thirty in the morning when you can sit within the warm, habitual comfort of your new flat, watching crap telly and thinking about your dead fa-"

"Shut it." John snapped, hopping to his feet quickly and tugging on his jacket. "If you want me to come along, just SAY so." He smiled excitedly.

Sherlock returned his charge's grin with a sly one of his own – before turning, and leading John Watson down the steps, and out the door of 221b Baker Street.

* * *

><p>* Made up Gerald WatsonLillian. Not sure if they are canon names, just picked them.  
>* Things might seem a little far fetched, but it's just for the purposes of the story. Please stay with me haha.<br>* I will splice in some actual moments/dialogue from the series, to help further the story along, but I'll try and keep it minimal. Some moments are just too good to ignore.  
>* Jim? ... Jim from the law firm?... Huh... (hint-hint)<p> 


	2. Try To Keep Up, Now

**Disclaimer:** I do not own 'Sherlock BBC' ... just the general plot. I will probably quote a few things from actual episodes along the way, but it's only to assist the canon of the characters, etc.

**Pairings:** Sherlock/Younger!John

**Note:** I really love this show, and push it on people whenever I can. Go watch. I love their dynamic, and felt like writing a multi-fic about them.

**Note II:** This is an AU, where John is around 17, and Sherlock is 27ish. For some reason I want to play around with an age difference. Both will continue to age, since I want to get John to 19 and Sherlock to 29. Don't like? Don't read.

**Inspired Song:** I Can't Make You Love Me – Bon Iver

* * *

><p>Lestrade wasn't pleased; that went without saying.<p>

It was hard enough bringing Sherlock to crime scenes without 'upsetting' other members of the team... but the fact that the sociopathic genius had brought a young, recently-grieving John Watson along this time, was pushing it.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lestrade hissed, falling into stride along Sherlock.

The dark-haired detective kept his eyes on the scene before him; police tape, flashing lights, the area, everything. "What a lovely welcome. Though I must say, I prefer the old: _'Thank God you're here, we are quite stumped, as always'_..." He muttered.

"I can't begin to imagine **why** you thought bringing along a seventeen year old would be a GOOD idea." The elder of the two continued. He glanced behind them quickly, to see John trailing behind, seemingly not paying attention – but rather, in awe of being at such a lively crime scene at nearly two in the morning.

Sherlock shot Lestrade a glare. "Oh? Perhaps I should leave him to wallow in a new flat, _alone_, to stew over the internal guilt he feels regarding his failure to save Gerald Watson's life." He snapped sharply. "Keeping him active is the most effective way to help him move on. I brought him because I need him; I need someone to listen, I need someone HERE who doesn't consider me a threat, a freak, or an _inconvenience_..." Lestrade's face had shifted from furious, to guilty, through Sherlock's explanation. "But if you don't want him here, by all means, tell John Watson to catch a cab back to 221b Baker Street. But do give him a fare. I'm not made of money." The genius sneered coolly, before ducking under a string of police tape and leaving Lestrade behind.

The older man sighed, and looked back to see John Watson finally catching up. "Uh... you sure it's alright I'm here?" John asked apprehensively.

Lestrade nodded. "I don't really approve; can't lie about that. But Sherlock wants you here. And I need Sherlock. So... come on." He grumbled, giving John a small smile before motioning him under the police tape. To his surprise, he saw a rather eager glint in John's eyes, as he nodded and ducked under the tape to jog after his new guardian. It was odd; he hadn't expected John to want to jump into such a new territory so quickly. Especially a 'territory' that was connected to his late father. Wasn't he still grieving? The funeral had only been the other day. Was Sherlock really so accurate? Was his energy so infectious? From the few hours they had spent together, had the genius come to read John _better_ than him? He had known the boy ever since he was little, and considered himself rather close to Gerald Watson in his day. Perhaps the boy was just dazzled by Sherlock's genius; as they all were after the preliminary introduction...

Shaking his head, Lestrade pushed those thoughts aside for the moment and followed after the two.

The three soon arrived in a rather shabby looking apartment. A woman was on the floor; eyes still open, and broken noose around her neck. Part of the rope was still tied to a rafter on the ceiling, and a tipped over chair was a few feet away from the body.

"Kate Tulane, 35, skilled investor and financial advisor. No kids, but she'd been engaged for a year to her fiance, Mark Dawson. You've got five minutes." Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms as he waited near the door.

John stood close to Lestrade, wanting to stay out of the way... but also wanted a clear view of Sherlock as he stalked into the room; intense, icy eyes fluttering about to each corner of the crime scene. It was like he was taking in every detail, every sight and utilizing every sense he had.

"Not suicide. Obviously." Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade frowned. "Obviously?"

"Yes. _Obviously_." The noirette hissed; John was catching on that Sherlock _really_ didn't seem to like repeating himself. "The rafter beam is too high; even WITH the chair, this woman's height wouldn't give her the ability to reach up and tie the rope."

Slowly, the elder D.I nodded. "Ok... so she had help. Any idea as to who?"

"Perhaps." He closed his eyes in frustration. "And _perhaps_ I might be able to come to a conclusion faster if you refrained from **speaking**... and let me work." Sherlock growled.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. John shifted his eyes back and forth between the two, wondering: did Sherlock always speak _that_ way to people in authority? It's not like he couldn't believe it... but it was still a bit off-putting. _Is this what everyone meant when they said Sherlock wasn't easy to get along with?_ The two bystanders watched as Sherlock drifted around the room; taking every aspect into consideration, sometimes bending down to the floor, and examining everything as closely as possible without completely disturbing the scene or body. "This woman doesn't belong here; the clothes, her make up and jewelry scream upper-middle class, manicure, styled hair and new shoes. She clearly has a well paying job that affords her such luxuries as nice clothes, accessories, etcetera. The scene and the victim don't match... so the question is, what is her connection to this place? Was it her choice, or the choice of her counterpart?" He mumbled; both John and Lestrade assumed he was just speaking to himself, so chose not to answer.

Standing upright, Sherlock swept back toward Lestrade... while John, ever-curious and impressed by his guardian's deductions – moved over toward the body to have a closer look himself.

"Any belongings? Purse? Phone?" Sherlock enquired.

Lestrade nodded, "Handbag found in the hall. Cell phone left on, with a suicide note typed out as a text. Sent to every one in her contact list; that's how we got the call. We located the whereabouts using the GPS on her phone." He explained.

"Suicide text. How modern." Sherlock mused, opening his own phone and beginning to search. What for, Lestrade didn't have a clue – but knew enough not to even ask. "Her history?"

The elder rubbed the back of his neck wearily, "Still looking into it. Some of her family is on their way down."

"Something's wrong. Something's missing." Sherlock muttered to himself. "The break in the rope is frayed; it was cut, not snapped. Look at her body; her weight wouldn't be enough, not with the thickness of that particular rope."

"Someone cut her down, then?" Lestrade asked, confused.

It was then that John spoke up, "Asphyxiation..." The young man said. He had been crouching near the body for some time now.

"And circle gets the square." Sherlock hissed sarcastically. "We _know_."

John frowned, "Yeah, but I don't think it's..."

"John, you shouldn't touch the body." Lestrade scolded; he seemed overly tired, one could only assume it was because he not only had to keep an eye on Sherlock, but John as well. "Our CSI's haven't had the chance to-"

But Sherlock had whipped his head up from his phone, when John had started to speak. "Shut up." He snapped to Lestrade. "Ignore him. Go. Speak." He urged John. The sandy-haired teen looked between both men nervously, and cleared his throat. "I said ignore him. What were you going to say; tell me." Sherlock demanded again.

Furrowing his brow, John motioned to the deceased woman. "Well, it just... it doesn't make sense. There's no rope burn on the skin around her neck..." He began explaining quietly; unsure if he should continue. "And... there's some odd bruising just beneath her jawline." Sherlock quickly moved back over, and knelt right beside John. He extended his small, portable magnifying glass, and ran it over the spots John had pointed out. "Those marks are petechiae, caused by burst capillaries..." John explained. "Along with some bruising and... what looks like trauma along the neck, and damage to the hyoid bone in the throat. It's already starting to discolour."

The consulting detective couldn't help but tear his eyes away from the body, and focus them squarely on John Watson. The teen didn't notice at first, and instead, lifted the eyelids of the woman. "Hemorrhage can be seen in the eyes, too. I think. But it's... um..." He stopped and looked up at Sherlock; immediately blushing when he saw how close his guardian was to him, and how intensely his cold-coloured eyes were focused on him. But instead of giving John a sarcastic quip about how 'obvious' this all was, or how this wasn't his place... Sherlock smiled. It was small, but successfully served to make John blush a little more.

"Brilliant." Sherlock announced, standing. "Murder then. It makes much more sense now, don't you agree? So an enemy – perhaps a client, someone she owed money to, or even the fiance; being in a strictly 'financial' job setting, it's not an entirely far fetched possibility. The market; incredibly unstable, especially lately. So, **money** would be the most logical assumption and strongest motive for her murder. If there is bruising and indications of strangulation, as John is suggesting, then we're not looking for an _accomplice_ – we're looking for the _assailant_. The rope and chair were a set up, staged – hence the lack of rope burn around the neck, as John so observantly pointed out, and the frayed break in the rope. It was cut in half to appear as if it had snapped."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, "You can't be serious. Sorry, but John's not a doctor – he's not qualified to-"

"You're right, he's not a doctor, but his father WAS." Sherlock interrupted defensively. "Wouldn't be a very _good_ father, either, if he didn't try to pass on some of his wisdom and expertise to his son. And with such a glittering reputation, what makes you think young John Watson wouldn't want to follow in his father's footsteps – thus, taking every lesson and every instruction from the old man to heart?"

John stood, watching the tension between the two mounting. He had to admit, he was a little shocked to hear Sherlock defending his observation. "Uh... it's fine. Really." John spoke up tentatively. "He's right, I'm not really qualified to do this. I shouldn't have d-"

"Nonsense." The noirette spat. "You've just shown me you're not completely useless or idiotic – unlike most of the people working in Scotland Yard. There was a 76% chance that the investigators might have missed those signs that John picked up on – especially given the mock-evidence and the noose around her neck. Asphyxiation, yes, clearly... but no one would have been looking for strangulation." Adjusting his long coat, Sherlock grabbed John's elbow, and pushed the teen out the door. "Check the history in her phone; last few calls or so, might give some indication as to who could be involved. Especially if she had been threatened beforehand. Send her client files and any documentation as to her financial situation to my flat. And once you have a list of suspects, retain them. Use a lie detector if I'm unavailable to attend the questioning myself. But for now... we're off." Lestrade followed the pair out of the room, and back down the hall.

"That's it?" He asked angrily.

"I can't do _everything_ for you." Sherlock groaned, still nudging John forward to leave the scene more quickly. "Besides... it's a school night. And I am a 'responsible' guardian now." He tossed over his shoulder.

Lestrade stopped in his tracks and sighed; there was no point in arguing with Sherlock when he'd already made the decision to leave.

* * *

><p>"Sorry. I shouldn't have stuck my nose in like that..." John apologized as they rode in the back of a cab, back to Baker Street.<p>

Sherlock was staring out the window, "Really? I find sticking one's nose into other people's business can help add a new perspective. You demonstrated that first hand." He purred. "And judging by the elementary medical deduction you gave regarding that body... you have a basic understanding of your father's previous work. Going to med school, then?"

"Uh," John cleared his throat; staring at Sherlock with his full attention, despite the fact the detective wasn't gracing him with his. "Yeah. Actually. I'm studying up on my A-Levels, and then hopefully university. Med school, y'know... make the old man proud."

Sherlock, as per usual, responded without thinking, "You can't make him proud, he's dead."

You could have cut the sudden tension in the cab with a knife. Sherlock seemed to almost instantly catch onto his mistake, and cleared his throat; glancing over to John – whose eyes had lowered to the cab floor.

"But you can, um... make a lot of other people proud. It's noble to carry on his legacy and follow in his footsteps. Gerald Watson was a great man." The dark-haired detective offered.

He was well aware it sounded like an obvious cover for his blatant carelessness... but he had to try something. This was all still quite new, despite how aloof and unfazed Sherlock attempted to act. He wasn't used to watching what he said, or two whom. He was generally very blunt, and yes, that made him appear _cold_ to most people. All he cared about was the work. He didn't need friends, he didn't need a relationship, and he didn't even need his family. Despite Mycroft's (and at times, his mother's) insistence. But for some reason... Gerald Watson had deemed **him** worthy to guard his son. To trust him with the next generation of Watson. It was baffling. He and Gerald hadn't been THAT close; at least, Sherlock hadn't _thought_ so, initially. Then again, he had been one of the **only** people to tolerate him. He never got angry at Sherlock – no matter his attitude – and he never called him a 'freak' or treated him any differently. In fact, Gerald only seemed to compliment Sherlock... _'feeding the genius' ego'_ as others might call it. He had laughed at Sherlock's dry humour and sarcasm, and actually bothered to engage him in conversation when their paths crossed.

"I am... sorry. For your loss." Sherlock added quietly, after John still hadn't spoken. The teen lifted his head slightly, and tilted it toward Sherlock, but still didn't look at the detective. "I was there. At the ceremony." He mumbled. "Went to the burial too, but... left before the egress."

Slowly, John flicked his cerulean blue orbs over to his guardian. "Thanks." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He felt so tired all of a sudden. It was hard to pretend the comment didn't hurt; John was fully aware that he couldn't make his father proud now. He'd had the chance – the _chance_ to make him proud by saving his life.

And he'd failed at it.

* * *

><p>The deafening school bell seemed to resonate through his entire body, and John shot up in his seat.<p>

He'd fallen asleep. Perfect.

A girl next to him giggled at his slightly bewildered expression, before picking up her books and leaving the study hall like everyone else. John groaned and rubbed his eyes. This was his _third_ class of the day, in which he could focus attention on his A-Levels, and the_ second_ time he'd fallen asleep. Gathering up his books, John left the classroom and began to make his way toward his locker... when his cell phone vibrated; alerting him to a new text.

_Come to Bart's Morgue. _ _It's important._ _  
>SH<em>

He wondered briefly how the hell Sherlock got his number. And why his phone already registered Sherlock as a contact. Then again, he remembered lending Sherlock his phone the day he'd moved in. The bugger must have programed it in. John frowned, and shot him a quick text back:

_I'm busy in class AND studying._  
><em>Also, how did you get my number?<em>  
><em>John<em>

It felt like mere seconds before a response beeped in:

_Irrelevant. _ _Bart's Morgue.  
>I need you.<em> _  
>SH<em>

Something about that last part sent a slight shiver down John's back, and he wasn't quite sure why. But Sherlock seemed like the adventurous type. Since he was asking John to come to Bart's Morgue, it must be important. _It must be for a case_. John stopped at his locker and deposited his books inside.

Glancing back down at the text, the sandy-haired teen was prepared to ignore it.

He had another lecture coming up, there was no WAY he could go.

There was no way.

None.

...

"Dammit." John cursed, slamming his locker shut after pulling out his messenger bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he ignored the other passing students – and jogged toward the front doors.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, do you know where I can find Sherlock Holmes?" John asked breathlessly.<p>

He was standing in front of a small, staff kitchen – where a woman in a lab coat was currently making some tea. "Oh." She said perkily. "He's in the lab. 5th floor." She smiled.

John nodded and muttered a 'thank you' – before taking off toward the elevators. His mind was racing with every possibility, and even then, NONE of them seemed like a likely explanation for why Sherlock would need him _this_ very minute.

Stumbling out of the elevator, the teen tried to straighten himself up as he walked toward the lab he'd been directed to. He pushed past the doors, and looked around quickly, "...Sherlock?" He called.

That familiar, deep voice came from the far, right side of the room. "Ah. John. Good." He purred; eyes focused on a rather impressive looking microscope.

"Good? ...That's it? Good." John panted, trying to catch his breath as he rounded the long, cluttered lab tables toward Sherlock's side. "You said you needed me. You said it was important."

Sherlock quirked a brow, "Did I?" He hummed. "I suppose... in a way, it is. You didn't have to run."

"...the _fuck_, Sherlock?" John exclaimed. "I **do** have class, y'know. I'm trying to work toward my A-Levels; I'm actually skipping TWO lecture sessions at this very moment, because of your stupid text. I thought something was wrong." It only seemed to irritate John further to see Sherlock merely smirk at his agitation.

"How mundane. A waste of time; you should be well aware of that by now. And what are you _really_ missing? You would have just slept through your last two sessions, as you did the first couple you had this morning."

John stared at him, gaping like a fish out of water.

"_How_ did you kn... no, you know what? Nevermind." John sighed. "Can you **please** just tell me what I'm doing here?"

Sherlock adjusted the eyepiece of his microscope, before looking away to fiddle on a nearby computer. "I've scheduled you some time in the morgue." He tossed out casually. "Figured some hands on experience couldn't hurt your intellectual progression in the medical field. Better to continue that early jump your father started you on, hm? You certainly have a knack for it. I saw that last night. Unfortunately your youth and inexperience is a problem, so rather than embarrass yourself, **and** me, it's better to put the effort in now."

Silence.

"...really?" John asked quietly; anger slowly fizzling out and giving way to a touching warmth, settling in the pit of his stomach. "That's... wow. Thanks. Thank you." He stuttered slightly, nodding and fighting the blush that was threatening to creep into his cheeks.

"I've got your tea here!" A pleasant voice called, as a woman entered the lab.

Sherlock spun back to the microscope; still not looking at either guest. "Ah, Molly. This is John Watson... he's the one who will accompany you back to the morgue."

"Hello." Molly greeted happily, setting the mug of tea she'd made for Sherlock down on the lab table. "I knew your dad. He was nice." She smiled fondly. "Sherlock tells me you're going to become a doctor too. He said some extra time in the morgue couldn't hurt. It's kind of against the rules, but-"

"**But** she's making a special exception for you." Sherlock interrupted sharply, effectively silencing Molly.

John looked back and forth between them. "W-Well, uh... thank you. I really appreciate you giving me some tips." He said to Molly.

"Well, come on then. We've got a couple hours. I'll show you what I've been working on since this morning." She gestured for him to follow as she headed back toward the doors.

John took a step, but then paused, and looked back to his guardian. "So... should I just go home afterward, or sh-"

"I'll come down to fetch you." Sherlock muttered, still favouring his microscope over John. "I left my riding crop down there, anyway..."

The sandy-haired male frowned, and winced. "What would y- ah, again, nevermind... I don't _really_ want to know. I just..." Biting his tongue, John reached over, and patted Sherlock on the shoulder good-naturedly. He didn't peg the consulting detective for a 'hugger' – so John offered what physical gesture he could. "Thanks again, Sherlock. I'll see you later." He said, heading off to catch up with Molly.

Sherlock had tensed a bit at the contact; the warm, slightly smaller hand on his shoulder caused a prickling sensation to linger on the spot for a few seconds.

Finally tearing his icy-coloured eyes from the microscope, Sherlock followed John as he emerged into the hallway, and disappeared by Molly's side. A small smile quirked the side of his mouth.

_'So... John Watson will actually come when I call him.'_ He mused._ 'Brilliant.'_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> So if something doesn't make sense in terms of all the deducing/cases/facts etc... you'll have to forgive me lol I'm not nearly as clever as A.C.D nor Mark/Steven... and it's exhausting and confusing trying to keep some kind of realistic sensibility to the cases lol Mostly I'm just rambling. This is more of a character-arch-story, not so much a 'clever well-thought-out' plot. _  
><em>


	3. A Revelation is At Hand

**Disclaimer:** I do not own 'Sherlock BBC' ... just the general plot. I will probably quote a few things from actual episodes along the way, but it's only to assist the canon of the characters, etc.

**Pairings:** Sherlock/Younger!John

**Note:** I really love this show, and push it on people whenever I can. Go watch. I love their dynamic, and felt like writing a multi-fic about them.

**Note II:** This is an AU, where John is around 17, and Sherlock is 27ish. For some reason I want to play around with an age difference. Both will continue to age, since I want to get John to 19 and Sherlock to 29. Don't like? Don't read.  
><strong><br>Inspired Song:**Slow Life (feat. Victoria Legrand) – by Grizzly Bear

* * *

><p>"Don't run, dear! You might trip! Lord knows these stairs have seen better days..."<p>

John ignored Mrs. Hudson's warning from her room below, as he burst through the front door, and bounded up the stairs of 221b Baker Street with all the energy a normal, seventeen year old should have. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted back, with no real sincerity in his voice.

Stomping through the door, John tossed his messenger-bag onto the ground as he headed into his new flat. Sherlock was texting on his cellphone, as usual, seated on the old couch like a vulture-in-waiting. "Glad to see you're making yourself right at home." He muttered dryly without looking up.

"Sod off. I'll take it upstairs in a bit." John smirked, heading right into the experimentally-cluttered kitchen. "Your stuff is all over the place _constantly_. At least I tidy up. I'm a good flatmate, you'll see." The consulting detective couldn't help but flick his icy-coloured eyes toward John, before going back to his phone.

He'd noticed that John had taken to calling himself Sherlock's 'flatmate' and not his 'charge'. Of course that was a more formal term, but he wondered if it was an attempt to push their relationship to a _friendlier_ level. He was seventeen, undoubtedly thought he was an adult, and wanted to be seen as Sherlock's equal – not his responsibility. Truth be told, despite all his sarcastic and indifferent huffing and puffing, Sherlock _had_ found John's presence in his disastrous flat not as... inconvenient... as he might have originally thought. The boy was rather disciplined; he knew how to do laundry, he tidied what he could, he even cooked sometimes, and was able to make a decent cup of tea. He had stayed out of Sherlock's room (at the detective's request), and respected the fact that he kept 'odd' hours and wouldn't always be at the flat when John left, or returned, from his lectures.

"Any news on that woman? The one we found at the other end of town?" John asked lightly as he bustled around the kitchen. "I'm curious if t- HOLY SHIT!"

The horrified shriek of the teen made Sherlock smirk. "There's a HEAD in the fridge!" John exclaimed. "A bloody head! Are you crazy! Do you know how **unsanitary** that is? W-Who is it?"

Sherlock continued typing away, "Calm yourself son, or you'll spurt." He mused wearily. "Just a John-Doe from St. Bart's. I'm conducting a little experiment Harmless; he won't bite, I assure you."

John stared at the severed-head for a few minutes longer in disbelief, before he reached in, and tentatively took out the milk... like he was afraid the head was going to jump to life, and bite his arm clean off. "Maybe a bit of warning, next time?" He grumbled, bringing in a cup of tea for Sherlock regardless. "So? ... The case?" He pressed again, delivering an eager smile. "I've been wondering about it for, like, a week and a half."

The noirette sighed, "Open and shut murder. Kate Tulane, according to friends and family, was ready to break up with her _fiance_ who had come to depend on a the 'lifestyle' her hefty paycheck and clever investments provided. He threatened her, and forced her to leave _him_ her earnings, and 'assisted' in her 'suicide'. My questioning coupled with the DNA evidence at the scene confirmed it. Lestrade arrested him three nights ago."

"Oh. Good." John smiled. "Glad I could help." Flopping down in the comfy armchair (that Sherlock was quickly deeming 'John's chair' since it was his favorite place to flop after being out and about) – the teen sipped on his tea; occasionally glancing toward the detective. "So, um... any **new** cases?" He asked, clearly trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Sherlock released another loud sigh. "It's _my_ career, not yours."

"...Sorry?" John asked, frowning in bewilderment.

"I'm not bringing you along on any more cases, John." Sherlock clarified simply; his tone seemed to imply he was speaking to a five-year old. Which John certainly _didn't_ appreciate. "You're too young. You're inexperienced, you can't possibly keep up with me, and - from what I gather from the notes in your binder – you are _unable_ to balance your studies with the demand of my job." He continued sharply. "Running to-and-from crime scenes with me at all hours of the night won't help you complete your A-Levels or get accepted to Med School."

It was evident that John was becoming more miffed by the second, "Hang on, _what_ the fuck were **you** doing going through my notation binders?" He asked angrily.

Sherlock smirked, "Quite the mouth, young Watson, but my decision is final." He mumbled. "You're not to accompany me anymore. I suppose I'll also have to start looking over your work and your study habits. It will be incredibly tedious, but you don't leave me much choice. I can only imagine what nonsensical dribble is cluttering that brain of yours..." He teased.

Truthfully, Sherlock wasn't terribly upset, but he kind of enjoyed having this 'authoritative' power over someone. It was new, and no one had ever given it to him; _'perhaps this was why teenage girls enjoyed babysitting so much'_ He thought. Especially someone with a bit of fire in their belly, like John.

"Right. Yeah. You're right." John muttered, suddenly standing up and leaving his tea cup abandoned on the coffee table. "What nonsensical dribble could _possibly_ be cluttering this brain of mine?" Sherlock tilted his head, noting the rather defensive tone, before it struck him.

He'd said something careless again. "John..."

"I know I'm inexperienced, I know I'm young, and I KNOW that my A-Levels are important – but there is a _reason_ I'm doing all this!" John spat, swooping his messenger-bag back off the floor. "Besides school, I don't **have** anything to 'clutter' my head with. Nothing to stop me from thinking about my father, or how I let 'im down, or how critical it is for me to follow in his footsteps and become a great man! ...But well done. At your 'insistence' I'll keep to school and bottomless guilt. Sorry for bothering you, Holmes." His voice dripped with aggravated sarcasm with the use of Sherlock's last name, as he stormed up to his room and out of sight.

The tall noirette clenched his jaw; he really _hated_ not having the last word.

Sherlock looked back to his phone and tried to ignore the slight pang in his gut... but it was no use. He had unconsciously started toying with John, pushing and nudging him just like he did with everyone else. It really was no surprise that people couldn't stand him. He knew that. Stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket, Sherlock stood up and headed toward the staircase. _He should probably apologize_. He had told Lestrade the same thing when he'd brought John along to his very first crime scene: the boy _needed_ a **distraction**. He needed something besides wallowing in his own misery. So what had changed? Well, Sherlock wanted John to succeed at becoming a doctor, of course. It would pay homage to his deceased father, and ensure John had a bright future.

As his guardian, wasn't he **supposed** to put John on the correct path? This wasn't about Sherlock, or the fact that he didn't _mind_ bringing the teen along when he was called to a crime scene. John had been (surprisingly) rather helpful at the last one. Still... he had to set an example. He had to appear normal, focused, and capable of looking after a seventeen year old. Right? Releasing a slow sigh, Sherlock moved to take the first step. _Apologize._

But the buzzing of his cellphone, as always, managed to steer his attention. Turning it on, he saw a text from Lestrade. Another mystery to solve, another puzzle to crack... he was needed... Sherlock turned his glacier-coloured eyes back to the steps, hesitating slightly, before he grabbed his long coat, and tossed it on.

He jogged down the stairs instead of up.

He would speak to John later.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was in a bad mood. Though perhaps, 'bad mood' would be an understatement.<p>

It had been almost _two weeks_ since he'd spoken to John; at least, legitimately spoken to John. The boy was doing rather well with giving Sherlock the silent treatment. He was quite impressed, but more _bothered_ than anything else (as much as he would hate to admit it). He had tried a few times to engage John in conversation, when he happened to arrive home to see John watching telly, or catching him before he left for school... But John simply gave short, one-word responses, or sometimes, no reply at all before disappearing up to his room. He forgot how stubborn teenagers could be; how stubborn he himself had once been at that age.

To make matters worse, Sherlock's initial 'curious case' was growing into a full blown clusterfuck. He had arrived at the crime scene Lestrade had called him to almost two weeks ago, and had deduced everything he needed rather quickly, but there were _still_ unanswered questions. The first departed victim had been poisoned, though there was no initial sign of foul play or evident sabotage. Unfortunately, victim one soon evolved into FIVE. _Seemingly random victims, same poison, no foul play, and no trace of injection._ Sherlock was growing considerably more frustrated each day, and Lestrade was more demanding and edgy than usual. There was a missing variable, and he was having trouble locating it! The police weren't having any luck, while the media was having a field-day.

An unsolved mystery, plus a cold-shoulder from his young charge – equalled one, unhappy and irritated consulting detective.

So John was rather startled as he sat in his favorite chair – silently reading over one of his textbooks - when Sherlock suddenly slammed his hands down on either side of the chair to get his attention; effectively preventing the teen from escaping. John's gentle blue eyes looked up in confusion to meet the intense orbs of his guardian for the first time in nearly two weeks.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this." Sherlock growled, closing his eyes in a slow blink, before opening them and focusing on John. "I need... h-" He censored himself. "I need... an extra pair of eyes. A fresh set."

John stared at Sherlock blankly for a minute. "I put that jar of eyeballs you left in the microwave on the second shelf. Knock yourself out." The teen answered dully, looking back to his textbook. Sherlock grabbed the intrusive textbook in one hand, and tossed it aside without missing a beat. "Oi!" John protested.

"I know you're mad. I know you're pouting and pissed because I, once again, said something incredibly insensitive regarding your late father, and your deep seeded guilt surrounding his death." Sherlock listed in one, flawless breath. Though it was impossible to keep a tone of sarcasm and irritation out of his voice. "But I **had** to say it. I have to try and push you away from this now, before you get too involved with the work. MY work. No one thinks I am responsible enough to care for you, and I intend to prove them wrong." He admitted. "Your father entrusted you to me, so whether you like it or not, I'm going to try and guide you in the same way he would have." Sherlock took another, small pause. "That being said, I am not ignorant to my own selfish desires – and I enjoy having someone I can use as a sounding board for my cases. It's rare to find someone who _likes_ listening to my deductions. Even after I pegged you with your own history in my first deduction, you didn't get angry... you were impressed. That tells me a lot about you; more than I initially read from our first meeting."

"I am not used to putting someone else FIRST, so naturally, I am trying to maneuver myself through this appointed 'guardianship' with as few errors as possible." Sherlock forced himself to slow down. "Give me a break." He huffed.

With the tension broken, a strange (and oddly comfortable) silence filled the room. John stared at Sherlock for a few minutes, before he pursed his lips. "I get it." He answered. "But you're not acting selfishly if I OFFER to help you." He insisted. "I want to help you. I **liked** going to that crime scene, I liked the mystery, and I can't help but feel like I would learn more from watching and listening to _you_ deduce these crimes – than I would learn in any classroom, or from any textbook."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. He hadn't really been expecting such a compliment, but successfully managed to keep the evident flattery he was feeling off his face.

"Alright." Sherlock nodded crisply – standing back upright and releasing John from the cage of his arms against the chair. "So I propose a compromise. What if I allowed you to assist me from the flat? You still can't go with me to the crime scenes... but I'll bring back what evidence and information I have, and we can explore and experiment here." Scruffing a quick hand through his unruly hair, Sherlock paced a bit, before focusing on John again. "You can still focus on school, and still learn from my example. Is that... acceptable?" He asked uncertainly.

John smiled. "That'll do." Pushing himself up from the chair, John rubbed his hands together excitedly. "And, after ignoring you for two weeks, I've gotten ahead in my studies and required readings. So what do y'need?" He asked.

"Reading. Research." Sherlock grinned.

The sandy-haired teen's face fell slightly. "Oh. I, uh... really? That's all?"

"Yes." The noirette clarified, moving over to an office box lingering by the kitchen. Heaving it up, Sherlock dropped it onto the coffee table. "These are the files of the victims. I have some more leads to explore, so I am trusting you to go through their history, their data, everything. I need any and all links you can find." He instructed. "Be thorough. Good lad." He smirked, patting John on the shoulder as he passed him and headed for the door.

He swept himself out the door, majestic dark coat flowing out behind him, before young John Watson could even breath a word.

"Tosser." The teen grumbled, moving over to the box. Plopping himself down on the couch, John stared at the box full of file folders in disbelief for a minute... before he began to sort through his 'latest' assignment.

* * *

><p>Sorting through files was exciting.<p>

No, scratch that, the opposite.

It was tedious and dull, and the only thing that stopped John from fiddling around on his phone or laptop... was that he didn't want to disappoint Sherlock.

He really shouldn't care. His guardian acted like a prat most of the time, and was more arrogant than anticipated. Yet, there was something incredibly fascinating about Sherlock. John often found himself wondering what the eccentric man was up to while he was in class or studying for his A-Levels. He always felt like he was missing out. And as emotionally removed and stunted Sherlock could be... John liked him. He was brilliant, and in his opinion, under appreciated. He had heard Sherlock rant enough about the authorities NOT listening to him when they should (and John had seen first-hand the looks and skepticism Sherlock was on the receiving end of) at a crime scene. Despite his ego, John had to admit that he believed more crimes _would_ get solved a LOT faster if people believed Sherlock the first time around.

But as long and as boring as this particular assignment had been, John had found something he thought could really break the case open for Sherlock.

He was actually rather excited for the detective to come back, find out what he'd found, and praise him extensively for being clever. Though after an hour of waiting, his normal, teenage hunger-pains caught up with him. John grabbed his coat, a bit of cash, and headed out of the flat; making his way toward the Chinese take-away at the end of the street.

It had taken a bit longer than usual, but when he'd arrived back home, he saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the entrance way, looking rather flustered.

"...Mrs. Hudson?" John asked worriedly.

She shook her head, and gave him a weak smile, "Oh. Hello dear." She wrung her hands together anxiously. "I don't think you should go up there right now. Oh, lord knows what Sherlock's done now." The older woman sighed.

Assuming that meant Sherlock was home, John bound up the stairs with his take-away; ignoring Mrs. Hudson's warning, and barged into the flat.

The teen immediately regretted his decision. All eyes were on him as soon as he entered.

Lestrade was sitting comfortably in the chair John had begun to claim – and there were multiple officers scattered around the flat, searching. They all halted to stare at John. "What you doing?" John demanded.

Lestrade sighed, "John. It's fine, calm down."

"No, I live here too! What are you doing?" He repeated; his eyes darting around wildly. The Inspector Detective seemed almost hesitant to answer.

Thankfully, Sherlock charged in, and did a double-take, looking around in confusion just like John had.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Sherlock hissed; far more pissed off than his young charge had been to discover people in the flat.

"It's a drugs bust." Lestrade gestured. "Well, they aren't _technically_ on the drug squad, but they are very keen."

Sherlock sighed in his usual, over-dramatic fashion, and scanned the room. "You've got to be joking. This is s- Anderson! What are you doing here?" He snapped.

"Oh I volunteered." Anderson purred with a wicked glint in his eye.

While John didn't have much experience with the bloke, he could definitely see why Sherlock hated him. Or rather, _loathed _him. There was a clear history there, and John wasn't sure if he wanted to know the full story.

"Are you geezers serious?" John scoffed, looking around to the older adults in the room. "You think **this** guy is a druggie? Have you MET him? He's brilliant and focused-" He began.

Sherlock took a step toward the teen, "John..." He muttered in warning.

"And I can guarantee that if you search this flat all day, you won't find anything even remotely resembling drugs!" John continued.

"John you might what to _shut up_." Sherlock ordered in a quiet, but firm, tone.

Frowning, the younger looked up to his guardian, to see his eyes; they appeared normal – cool, calculated and intense on the surface. But then he saw a flicker of something in Sherlock's icy orbs. Embarrassment? "No..." John muttered, looking Sherlock up and down. "You?" He asked in disbelief.

Sherlock shot him a glare, "Shut up." He snarled, before turning back to Lestrade. "You won't find anything. I told you, I've been clean for months. You can't just come in here without a warrant."

"You can't withhold evidence." Lestrade shot back.

"There's nothing here but the folders you gave me." Sherlock insisted. "Why do you think I've been dashing 'round London? I've been following_ leads_! ...Which is more than I can say for you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? Does it feel good to search for non-existent contraband instead of a REAL killer?" The noirette asked, sarcasm dripping from every word that poured past his lips.

Abandoning his now cold Chinese takeaway, John tugged on Sherlock's arm. "I need a word, Sherlock." He whispered, pulling his guardian aside. "I did what you asked, I looked through their files and even their medical records..." He began to explain.

"John, this isn't the time." Sherlock growled; his sharp eyes still darting around to the detectives lurking and pawing around his flat.

The teen huffed, "Sherlock, just listen!" He pressed.

"Hey, don't go filling that boy's head with lies." Anderson shouted from the kitchen. "Better be careful, son... that freak will manipulate you to see 'im as the victim."

John bristled; having had just about enough. "Sod off, you daft git! And I'm not your _son_." He clarified, not taking well to the nickname.

"Gotten to you already, has he?" Anderson scoffed. "Can't say I'm surprised. You're his newest experiment, Watson. How long will it take for a perfectly normal kid to go off 'is head, if forced to live with a _mental-case _like Sherlock Holmes?" He smirked teasingly. "Or 'as it gotten more _personal_? ...You know he's _bent_, right? What does it feel like to have him buggering you up the arse all the time?"

The sandy-haired teen glared, "Oh? Don't _you_ remember?" He shot back snidely.

"Hey." Lestrade snarled at the inappropriate turn the argument had taken.

"Oi, don't speak to me like that, you pup." The forensic lead piped back. "I'm the team leader for this particular 'freelance' bust. You'll do well to show me some respect."

"Your title doesn't MEAN anything, Anderson." John muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Excuse me, it means I'm 'leader' of a team." He answered defensively, playing right into John's childish wind-up.

"No it doesn't." John pressed, "It's a title someone's given you to get you to do something they don't WANT to do for _free_. It's like making the deaf kid at school milk-monitor; **no one** respects him." 1*

Sherlock couldn't repress barking out a laugh. It surprised everyone, even John, since it was so rare to see even a hint of a smile cross the detective's lips; _especially_ at a crime scene. His stormy orbs lingered on John; appreciation and a hint of surprise lingering in their usually cold and removed depths.

"You little bastard," Anderson hissed as his cheeks began to flush red with embarrassment. He took a threatening step toward the teen, body language stiff, fists clenched and ready to attack, before Lestrade stepped forward to intercept him.

"Anderson, that's enough!" He growled. "Take a breather. Go find Sergeant Donovan, and tell her I need to speak with her."

While Anderson had a few desperate words with Lestrade in a last attempt to save what little dignity he had left – John had turned his attention to Sherlock, who was suddenly standing about a foot-and-a-half in front of him; fiddling on his phone now that Anderson's little fit had been deterred. He wasn't sure _why_ he'd felt the uncontrollable urge to defend Sherlock and his horrible habits. Frankly, when he took time to think about it, John couldn't blame Anderson for trying to call-out the consulting detective. Sherlock wasn't exactly on 'staff' at the Yard, and his people skills were considerably lacking. Evidently there was also some past drug abuse (which John would later find time to enquire about; just in case he had to look out for any addictive tendencies).

Opening his mouth to gently reprimand his guardian for not defending himself, John clamped it shut again as Sherlock strode away from him and out of range. _'I'll scold him later...'_ John logged in his mind.

"Never seen 'im do **that** before." Lestrade's low, weary voice spoke up from beside John – drawing his attention.

The sandy-haired teen frowned, noticing that Anderson had disappeared, "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I shouldn't have gotten so riled up... I know I'm not supposed to get involved, I know I shouldn't provoke anyone, but I co-"

"No, not Anderson." Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock."

John shook his head, still uncertain as to what the old Inspector was referring to. "You didn't notice? ...He moved in front of you when Anderson took that step forward." He said, speaking a bit quieter, as if this observation was meant for John and John alone. "I've known Sherlock a few years now... and I've never known him to step in front of anybody. For _any _reason."

The youngest Watson frowned. Well, he had noticed that Sherlock was beside him – and then in front of them after his little Anderson-confrontation, but the detective had a tendency to pace a lot. John just figured Sherlock had moved in front of him during one of his 'flat laps' (as John liked to label them).

John spotted Sherlock near the doorway, looking at something on his phone with a subtle gaze of revelation. "Sherlock," He called quietly, removing himself from Lestrade and over to his guardian. "I still have something to tell you." He urged. "I looked over the files, and-"

"I've got to pop off for a bit." Sherlock interrupted, staring off and not acknowledging John. The teen furrowed his brow. "Keep Lestrade company, John... lock up after he leaves. Won't be long." He muttered in a daze.

Before he could utter any protect, Sherlock was down the stairs and out the door.

John stared after him for a minute; he couldn't help but wonder WHAT one had to do to get in Sherlock Holmes' radar? WHAT did he have to do to get Sherlock to LISTEN to him?

"Where's he off to?" Lestrade asked wearily, huffing an annoyed sigh.

He shook his head. "No idea. Wouldn't say." John answered.

"Typical." The D.I muttered. "Well. Let's go lads. Doesn't seem like we're going to find anything, and whatever lead Sherlock 'as... he isn't sharing at the moment." He ordered, clearing the squad out of the flat. John could only watch them filter out, shuffling anxiously on his feet.

_He was a good kid... normally. He didn't find much cause to lie, cheat or steal. He respected authority, was polite and well-mannered..._

So, why wasn't he telling Lestrade what he had discovered, going through the files Sherlock had left him?

He wasn't sure he'd cracked the case, but the information he'd found could possibly HELP link everything together. _'Speak up,'_ John told himself. _'Tell Lestrade. He's an Inspector, he would help, he would listen, he trusts you... tell him...'_

"Lestrade," He spoke. The D.I stopped and looked back at him expectantly. It was just the two of them left in the flat now. John opened his mouth, but found the information wasn't coming; he couldn't form words. "I'll... let you know. If I find anything." He offered weakly.

"Cheers, John." Lestrade nodded, trotting down the stairs and out of the house behind his team.

John stood in the now-silent flat for a few minutes; his mind rushing a mile a minute.

_'Stupid.'_ He cursed himself. He should have just told Lestrade. He should be more loyal to him than Sherlock, right? The D.I had always been good to him, moreso now since Gerald Watson's passing. Though he had other things plaguing his mind than where his loyalties lay. And that was Sherlock's whereabouts.

Moving back over to the files, John looked over the notes he'd compiled. After going over all the information of each victim meticulously, he had discovered that they all had one thing in common. Their pharmacist. It was a small fact, but John believed, could be an important one. He had taken more time to look over their medical notes, as opposed to their family (and personal) history, because the medical-field was something he was vaguely comfortable with. If each victim was poisoned, but there was no sight of injection, John came to the conclusion that it wasn't out of the question to believe it had something to do with their prescriptions. Flipping through his book, John quickly memorized the address of the pharmacy. _'Perhaps that's where Sherlock went...'_

John grabbed his coat, and was ready to head out the door... before stopping in his tracks. He turned, paused for a split second, and bounded up the stairs to his room.

Flinging open his closet, he pushed a few clothes out of the way, and knelt down to retrieve a box from the back. It was various keepsakes that had been left to him by his father. A few photographs, his father's old army uniform, medals, doctorate certificate, and trinkets from their time together. And beneath all the loving nostalgia – was his father's British Army Browning L9A1.

Pulling it out, John stared at the weapon stoically for a few seconds, before releasing the chamber and checking the gun magazine to make sure it was loaded. Pushing it back in and cocking the barrel, John stuffed the gun into the back of his jeans. It felt devious; taking his father's gun to follow (hopefully) after Sherlock. Gerald had taken him to a few shooting ranges and showed him how to aim and fire a weapon. It was one of his favorite memories of them together.

He just hoped he wouldn't have to use the techniques his father had taught him...

* * *

><p>He hadn't really thought about it.<p>

He had just acted.

John had seen Sherlock was in danger. As he suspected, the genius detective had already cracked open the case, and decided to take on the task of confronting the 'villain' himself. Thankfully, at the height of their confrontation, John had stepped in. He wasn't seen or heard of course. Once he'd located Sherlock inside the pharmacy, John took a position outside – gun at the ready.

He had tried to wait. He had tried to give Sherlock, and the unhinged Pharmacist (who'd been prescribing poison, essentially, to some of his patients) the benefit of the doubt. But when it became clear that the Pharmacist had no intention of going quietly... nor allowing Sherlock to leave unscathed, John had reacted:

He had fired.

The bullet's path was precise, and tore it's way clean through the Pharmacist's chest.

In a flash, John was away from the building; gun stashed once more down the back of his pants – as he walked down the dark, quiet streets, briskly, as if nothing had happened. A few police cars whizzed by him in a flurry, followed by an ambulance. He had texted Lestrade when he'd arrived and spotted Sherlock. He knew they would need back up, and with the Pharmacist being a wanted murderer, undoubtedly first-aid.

It had seemed like a long walk back to Baker Street...

Unfortunately, not as long of a wait for Sherlock to return as John might have hoped.

He had just finished boiling water in the kettle for tea, when the door to their flat swung open; slamming behind the newly arrived detective. Not two seconds later, Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, and stopped in the doorway to glare at John. The teen tried to ignore the tension filling the room. It was all he could do.

His guardian stared. "You solved it."

"Eh?" He played dumb. "What's wrong? ...Solve the case?" He asked.

Sherlock's eyes were hard and unwavering. "You would know."

"Sorry?" John muttered, shaking his head and trying to walk past Sherlock.

Clearly, he wasn't going to get off that easy – and to his surprise, the tall noirette reacted by grabbing his arm, and slamming him roughly against the neighbouring wall between the door and kitchen. "Hey!" John protested; however, Sherlock's grip on his stripped jumper wasn't relinquishing.

"I told you **not** to follow me." He hissed. "I told you NOT to get involved."

"And I listened." John replied, shifting his eyes uncomfortably. He was never the best liar, and obviously, Sherlock could see it.

The consulting detective snarled, "Oh yes?" He mocked. Reaching down, he grasped John's wrist, and held his hand up in the air between their faces. "Next time, _do_ try to remove the powder burns from your fingers. Firing a gun will do that." John tore his wrist out of Sherlock's grasp. "You're lucky the bullet went clean through." Sherlock growled. "They won't be able to _find_ it, much less trace it back to you, however, that is of little consequence. You directly disobeyed me."

The teen lifted his chin proudly, "You have a funny way of saying 'thank you'..." He muttered. "I saved your life. And y'know what? ...I think you _wanted_ me to follow you. You gave me the means to figure out the case by having me look over the files. You had already sorted it out, hadn't you? This was just some test to see if I'd catch on!" John's voice became increasingly louder with each point; his clear frustration from the past few weeks coming across. "I'm not an experiment, I'm your friend! I want to help!"

"You're not my friend, you're my charge! And you can help by staying out of danger!" Sherlock countered tensely.

John shook his head, "Being with you ALREADY puts me in danger!" The clever teen noted. "Going with you to crime scenes isn't going to neutralize the life-threatening pace of the life you live. I followed you, because I knew you would need help – and you did! My father would have done it!"

"Your father is dead!" Sherlock yelled.

"EXACTLY!" John roared back.

The room feel into a dark, serious silence as the weight of their argument settled on both detective and teen.

Sherlock forced himself to take a breath. As he focused on John again, he found that the young man had tears welling up in the corner of his eyes. He was desperately trying to keep his pain off his face, but Sherlock saw through that paper-thin mask easily. He suddenly felt incredibly guilty.

"My father is dead." John spoke quietly; his blue eyes now avoiding looking directly at Sherlock. "I don't... I just-" He stammered out awkwardly. "I can't lose a-another..."

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for John to finish his sentence... but he didn't. He censored himself. Not that he HAD to conclude it; the older male had already figured out the last part of John's statement – and it made his heart beat a little faster.

No one had ever really 'cared' for Sherlock before. Not as a guardian, not as a role model, and certainly not as a friend. But here was this seventeen year old kid – fresh from the death of his father, and forced to live with a high functioning sociopath he didn't know. How did he become so attached so quickly? Why was he so loyal? Surely, John had ample chance to see that Sherlock was lacking in proper social skills, he was difficult, moody, and arrogant. Any normal person would have cut all ties to him. _'John Watson isn't normal,'_ Sherlock's brain reminded him. _'Gerald Watson sent him to you for a reason...' _

"I understand." Sherlock offered, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "You should head off to bed. It's been a long night."

John kept his eyes on the floor, seemingly unable to look up at his guardian. "Thanks. I, uh... might pop out for a minute. I need some fresh air."

"It's too late to be wandering off." Sherlock cut in quickly.

"I'm not wandering off." The sandy-haired male explained wearily. "I just... want to sit on the front stoop. Won't be a minute." He mumbled, turning and trotting down the stairs without waiting for a reply from Sherlock.

The tall noirette watched him go reluctantly, before making his way into the kitchen. The tea John had been about to make had been abandoned on the counter, and with the eventful night now drawing to a close, Sherlock knew he could really go for a cup. He would wait for John to return from his five-minute 'time out' on the stoop in front of Baker Street. It was a lot for a young man of his age to deal with, Sherlock could be certain of that.

He supposed he couldn't blame John for following, despite his earlier warning. To be perfectly honest, he had figured the case out earlier. Leaving John the files had been a successful test in validating John's level of intelligence. The boy had nothing to lose; nothing else to focus on but school – and Sherlock knew his lifestyle could be perceived as adventurous, dangerous and challenging. He imagined John was still trying to come to terms with the passing of his father. Weeks had passed since the funeral, and despite his inexperience with such powerful emotions, Sherlock knew John was probably still grieving in his own way._ 'So: dead father, lack of stimulation, a desire to prove himself a man, bending the rules for once in his life, and killing a m-'_

Sherlock's thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

John had killed a man. _Undoubtedly his first_.

Leaving his steeping tea on the counter, Sherlock took off down the steps, and out the front door with his new revelation trailing behind...

John was where he'd promised; sitting on the front steps. He had a cigarette in hand, however.

"Fresh air normally doesn't constitute inhaling smoke." Sherlock muttered in his awkward attempt at a greeting.

"Nope." John answered, sniffing in sharply as he stood. He flicked the cigarette away and onto the sidewalk. Sherlock caught him quickly wiping his arm across his eyes, probably trying to rid any evidence of tears away from his face. Of course, puffy red eyes were a dead giveaway that the boy had been crying. "Sorry." He apologized weakly. "It's not something I do a lot. Just for emergencies, y'know?" John offered a small fake smile.

"Yes." Sherlock responded smoothly. "I imagine killing a man would warrant a cigarette." Pausing, his glacier-coloured eyes drifted over the shorter Watson. "...Are you alright?" There was a hint of concern in Sherlock's voice that was rarely present, but John believed it to be genuine.

He nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, a choked sob escaped past his lips.

Sherlock froze as his eyes focused completely on the dismantled teen before him. He hadn't seen John Watson cry. He always seemed so together, so sturdy; even after and during his father's funeral.

"I-I killed a man, Sherlock..." John stammered, his warm eyes now filled with regret and uncertainty.

The taller male stiffened, "But he wasn't a very nice man, now was he, John?" Sherlock reminded him strongly. "He had killed six other people, and would have killed more if we hadn't stopped him. You saw it. My life was in danger, and you did what you had to do. You acted."

John nodded quickly as he breathed in and out in a last attempt to calm himself. But he stopped breathing all together for a moment, when he felt the weight of Sherlock's hand atop his head. Peering up at him, half in disbelief, half in shock – John saw pride flickering in Sherlock's usually neutral orbs.

"Your father would have been proud." He knew this to be true. His father had taught him well, and John was all too aware that if Gerald Watson had been alive – he would have done the same thing.

With all these emotions now churning inside him, John took a step forward to embrace Sherlock in a much-needed hug. But to his surprise (and secret dismay), the genius stepped back – suddenly looking quite uncomfortable.

"Uh," Sherlock cleared his throat, using his hand atop John's head to keep the teen at arm's length. "I'm not... I'm not really, uh... good. At. Hugging. Or emotions." He explained brokenly.

John nodded, suddenly feeling quite foolish as an embarrassed blush crept onto his cheeks. "Right. Sorry." He offered, stepping back.

"Come on. Inside." Sherlock prodded, motioning with a slight incline of his head for John to head back in.

The teen obeyed, and walked through the door first, followed by Sherlock into the main townhouse foyer. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it on the end of the stairway banister, "We'll have a cuppa, and then it's off to bed. I can only hope you've had enough foresight to finish that assignment I know you have du-"

He found himself rendered speechless as John suddenly turned, and barrelled right into Sherlock; hugging him around his slender waist while burrowing his face into the detective's chest.

Sherlock froze immediately. He stood there with his arms slightly out to either side, careful not to touch John as the teen stayed latched onto his middle, like a koala. Nothing was said, and nothing was heard – except the breathing of both individuals as they stood in the dark foyer by the foot of the stairs. Then, ever so slowly, Sherlock lowered his arms around John. One settling on the teen's back – and the other hand gently resting behind his sandy-haired head. It looked like the correct formula for a proper hug. Unfortunately...

"You are awful at this." John muttered into the tall noirette's chest. "It's like hugging a mannequin."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth couldn't help but quirk up in a small smile. "Sound analysis, Watson." He smirked. "I told you I was no good at this."

Gradually, John pulled away from the stiff embrace, and gave his first real smile of the evening. "Well, maybe that's something else I can help you with." He mumbled a bit sheepishly. "You might be a genius, but you're rubbish at the everyday stuff."

"I should hope so." Sherlock mused. "It's the everyday 'stuff' that is so incredibly dull. Why should I bother with it?"

John paused, and finally looked Sherlock in the eyes again. "Well... because one day you'll realize how important the 'everyday stuff' can sometimes be."

There was a glimmer of something in John's eyes. Sherlock almost missed it, but it was there... flickering deep within his clear orbs; not gratitude, not appreciation, but something deeper, more personal? John turned away quickly, and jogged back up the stairs before Sherlock could finish deducing the 'look' he'd just been given.

* * *

><p>1 * ten points if you get the reference xD couldn't resist throwing that in there<br>* apologies for any spelling/grammar errors. I am going to come back and edit, but I wanted to get this chapter up before I left for work.  
>* once more, I am rubbish with the 'mystery' parts haha, hope the case was ok, and basic enough to get by. Threw in some series references, etc. but tried to shake things up a little to make it a bit different.<p> 


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